


Splits A Family In Two...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Queen (Band)
Genre: Affection, Affectionate Insults, Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Angst, Arguing, BAMF John, Band Fic, Banter, Beginnings, Best Friends, Bickering, Brian deserves guitar solos, Character Study, Confusion, Crying, Dancing, David is a bit of a prisspot right, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Drunkenness, Epic Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Freddie "I'm not the leader of Queen - I'm just the lead singer" Mercury, Gen, Hot Space Era, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecure Freddie, Insecurity, Introspection, John Deacon is a riff master, Miscommunication, Mother Hen Brian May, Not necessarily in a bad way he's just used to working solo, Pizza, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Roger Taylor (Queen) Is a Good Friend, Roger is frustrated, Sad Brian May, Sassy John, Shy John Deacon, Smoking, Song Lyrics, Song: Under Pressure, Songwriting, Swearing, What-If, Worried Brian I mean what else is new?, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Bowie dropped by and we did some work in the studio.The writing and recording of 'Under Pressure' on a whim, which Roger has strong feelings about, in which John completely forgets his killer bassline, there isn't a guitar solo to be found, and what gets shown off isn't what was expected to be.(Or, the realisation that 'Under Pressure', while a very recognisable song in its own way, does not sound like a typical piece by Queen)
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, David Bowie & Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Roger Taylor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 36





	1. It's the Terror of Knowing...

Montreux studio. Ready for recording of their tenth album, how time flies - the producers getting everything sorted before bursting on the scene is the flyaway opalescent grey suit and yet seemingly effortlessly put-together appearance of David Bowie. 

He saunters in without a care, come to jam with Queen, so he says. "Just finished my own bit of work, so." He sniffs, spins on his heel in perfectly-shined shoes, those eyes of his glittering like a cat's as his slightly pointy teeth peek out between lips in a smile. Roger and Brian glance at each other, Brian's brows lifting as Roger wrinkles his nose. He cannot stop his eyes from going big. 

"Let's do this, darling, what shall we compose?" Freddie flaunts his way over to Bowie, taking his hands dainty and brushing his lips in the air beside both of David's cheeks. He steps back, though, as if bashful; eyes dropping to David's shoes a moment, thinking of that time so long ago he'd been shining them, a different time, for another man. Or that was how it seemed, at least. For David had been Davy Jones them, and he Farrokh Bulsara. Yet he doesn't dare ask if the man would remember, doesn't know if he'd WANT him to remember.

But the thin white Duke is regal, even in this low little room, practically a basement, with stale air that grows staler as Roger lights up a fag and screeches his drumset stool across the floor, puffing smoke as he pinches his cigarette between first and second fingers.

"Well what's the plan then? We just jamming or writing a song?"

Bowie's sharp-boned features, even more angular than those of Brian, unsoftened by midnight curls or gentle gazes as they are, still face Freddie's as he flicks his fingers. "Oh, just play something. Use your skills at improvising."

Roger makes a movement that causes Brian to put out one long hand, low, and shake his head. John, drily, tosses out "We're under pressure to create, eh?"

Freddie's eyes light up as he lets out some of his vocal warm-up in ebullient fashion.

Roger trades another glance with Brian as "Under pressure, yes. No one's at fault for it."

"Right." Roger snorts, Brian ducks his head with a little cough as John's gaze shifts to them. "Well, 's not like anyone's catching the building on fire."

"...You still trying to get on with that 'Man on Fire' idea, Roger?"

"Stuff it, Bri, that's gonna be a hit, I swear!"

"... When? And more importantly, how? You want to actually be sleeping on the sidewalk?" Brian's lean face is shadowed by his hair as he lowers it, leans one hip against a chair and tunes up his Red Special, shaking curls out of his eyes and chuckling as Roger shoves one hand, fingers spread, into the centre of Brian's chest. 

"Just had to make a bloody reference to yourself didn't you?"

 _"Splits a family in two, puts people on streets -"_

"Eeh da da deh, we da da deh, see deh da, we deh day, that's okay!" Freddie is tapping his fingertips on the side of his microphone casually. Bowie's teeth flash in what seems like a smile then as he nods, bright hair getting some life in it as that drawling tone that stays somehow crisp, as if he's about to break out in a shout, or start crying, always on the knife's edge of some great emotional upheaval when he begins to sing. 

He now gestures for Freddie to keep on.

"That's good, that's good, go on. _It's the terror of knowing what this world is about,_ because, let's face it, once we know it's a bit terrifying, innit?" That query is posed as if to all the rest, and Roger whistles.

"Wow, Brian, he's got as dark a mind as you do!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *it's said that Freddie Mercury shined David Bowie's shoes once, before he was famous. David had forgotten his wallet, so Freddie shined them for free
> 
> *In an interview in Japan, Brian talked about how David Bowie came in to work with them
> 
> This story is based on personal musings that came rushing upon me today after listening to 'Under Pressure' for the nth time. I love it, yet was struck by several things. This is my way of puzzling out what I heard, and not meant as a slight or any form of disrespect to the spirit of the song in question.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this, comments are appreciated <3


	2. Puts People on Streets

Roger finds himself caught by Freddie singing, Bowie coming right after, and even as this is their space and he and Brian and John still haven't been asked to do anything specific with instrumentation, what the fuck, they're part of the band - but _holy shit, that's David fucking Bowie_ and besides, he can get in to keep time, at least. So Rog goes on the hi-hats and nods at John to bring in his bass. 

Deaks, eyes wide as he watches Bowie's slim back, his movements and vocalisation that are both so incredibly precise, starts a little deep sound almost like a dirge - or a heartbeat - in a joking sort of way. Bum bum bum ba-da DUM dum, bum bum bum da da DUM dum. Roger nods vigorously at the sound and flips one drumstick, Brian's eyes crinkle in a small smile, and even Bowie himself turns to look back at them for a moment. 

Freddie wears a soft smile and subtly blows John a kiss, his vocal tone growing richer and more confident then. David has such a presence, and he's been big ever since Freddie knew of him, really; seemed so, anyhow - he's got charisma and poise and not to mention isn't afraid to call out what doesn't work, isn't right or doesn't fit the vision. Freddie feels a bit small in comparison, yet his boys are backing him, John has that lovely riff going.

Brian, biting his lower lip, brings in his guitar for a bit, finds what would be his usual moment for a solo, and "What are you doing there?" David stops, cocks his head. "Don't you think the voices ought to swell rather than the guitar?" And Brian, blinking hard, looks from Roger, who shrugs, to Freddie, who is so utterly, wholly focused on singing his heart out, putting in everything. Brian doesn't want to let him down. 

He swallows. "Right, erm, can we get a new tape in, Mack?" The guitarist leans into his microphone, making it live as he calls to their producer, who nods back sharply with a thumbs up. Clicks and whirring of the rolling tape come over the speakers again and the song rolls on.

*** 

No one's certain who cracked the first bottle of wine, but they got in blowing too and smoke hovers in a cloud over the instruments soon enough, drifting through the doors that Brian opens a couple of times to get in some fresh (or fresher) air.

Red wine mixes with smoke in Roger's glass as he waves it and "Bollocks, I need a different progression for that bit, otherwise y' may's well gimme a drum machine!" The blond has got over his awe of Bowie by now, shaking out his hair and roughing it up in irritation. "Can't bring in Bri's big guitar, so we need some difference in drums then." He cuts his eyes at Brian, the sharpness in their icy colour letting the guitarist know that Rog isn't appreciative of the fact that Brian's work seems muted. Never mind that his is.

"Deacy's got a good riff going," Brian's gentle tone now holds a bit of steel within. "If my riffs don't work, at least give Rogie some."

Roger lifts his glass at that, as John nods, a wrinkle between his brows. "Ta, Brian."

Bowie looks round at all of them, the wine staining his lips as he swipes an arm through the air. He looks at Freddie, whose deep dark eyes flicker to his and then away, and Brian's chest clenches in sorrow and sympathy, even as he feels a twinge, a wish for Fred to stick up. For Brian, yes, yet for himself even more. 

Rog is their resident spitfire, he's going into any fight with eyes up and claws out, spitting. There is never any doubt about that. Freddie is a hisser with a barbed end when he really can't abide something, John is silent, whereas Brian... He finds himself backing off this time. Nodding with a tight little smile as his shoulders get higher and tenser by the second, til they're practically cradling his ears, and Roger stops his backbeat.

"Alright lads, someone has to say it, we're fucking famished and that means this whole thing'll be shit. Let's go out for a bite, yeah?"

"A fantastic idea, darling!" Freddie claps his hands after a heavy sigh emanates from Brian, or Bowie, no one's sure which. "Where shall we go?"

"For pizza," John suggests, speaking up for the first time. By sight of nods into the silence, that is the first and only thing this evening they all have unanimously agreed upon.

"Pizza it is!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger said about the recording of this song, which took place in a single evening: "You already had four precocious boys and David, who was precocious enough for all of us. Because passions ran very high... I got so little of my own way." This is quoted in LIFE Magazine, the Queen issue. I think even a huge fan of somebody and their work would get a bit miffed if he's used to doing things a certain way...
> 
> *The recording of this "fairly complicated song" was apparently fuelled by large amounts of wine and cocaine. Whatever worked, I guess? Cocaine though, just...wow
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Watching Some Good Friends...

It's dark out of doors now, a little past dusk as the five traipse out of the studio together - Bowie flicking his cigarette away and spinning to do some dancing in the street, elbows out, both hands stuffed into pockets, kicking out his feet in a strange little step that Freddie joins. John smiles, his entire face crinkling with mirth, and giggles, and Roger harrumphs and tucks himself into his fuzzy coat as Brian falls into step beside him, black curls blowing across his face as he futilely attempts to force them back with a long hand.

"You alright, Rog?" Brian asks softly as the others move ahead to search out a pizza joint. John, still giggling and feeling the effects of the wine they'd imbibed, he more than most - stumbles into Freddie's side and in response an arm is tenderly wrapped around him, cinched at his waist, helping the bassist remain upright. Freddie is off and speaking brightly, quickly; up from the coke and the high of creation, and it warms Brian's heart to see, even as he feels a crushing sense of isolation and of worry, because not only hasn't he done anything to get himself up like that, but Brian has seen what can happen from the drug, and waits for the paranoia Fred will surely feel. 

Even as Brian himself is off to the side, in the back, without a solo and without a voice or the means to ask Fred whether he is really, truly doing well in studio. Freddie's been having ups and downs, procuring drugs through one particular individual who makes Roger's fucking skin crawl, or so he'd hissed to Brian one day; and then Bri realises that he had, in fact, just asked if Roger is doing all right, and really should pay attention to the answer. He looks down at his drummer, settling an arm around Roger's shoulder.

Rog's jaw is as tight as Brian has ever seen it, and he feels how Bri is walking beside him, feels that big sad bastard slumping. The insecurities creep up on his gigantic best friend.

They're never really gone, honestly - if Roger has heard "me guitar doesn't sound right here" once he's heard it a thousand times; if he hasn't heard "I should stand in the dark, I've got spots, need to cover up - but I don't look good in makeup" or, "I'm too big, I ought to get out of the way, the audience won't see you" _"Brian I'm behind a fuckin' drumset of course they're going to see you better than they see me! 'sides I can't see them either so what's the bloody problem?"_ the surety that he's got to have a solo, he's got to be of use, even though he's the best ruddy guitarist Roger has ever seen and damn it -

"No, Brian, I'm not fucking alright, because YOU'RE not all right, I can hear you thinking shite about yourself so stop it, right now." He grabs Brian's bony side with his calloused fingers and clutches, Brian wincing in surprise and a brief shock of pain that Roger instantly feels awful for. He takes his hand away, Adam's apple bobbing deeply as he swallows and blinks and can't stand even unintentionally physically hurting his friend. "'M sorry, Bri. 'M gonna - just let me talk to them, okay? We can add a solo, I'm sure, have you backing up Freddie -"

"No," Brian shakes his head vehement, curls whipping round thin features as he looks into Roger's face. "No, it's alright, Rogie. The song works as it is." _So far. Of course it does, Fred and Bowie are both genius musicians. I'm just a genius, and not really, even, at that._ Brian winces, internally he thinks but feels Roger's thumb and forefinger grasping him by the chin as those intensely bright blue eyes are staring at him in fury.

Roger knows he is not going to get Brian to go back on what he's just said. No how, no way. "You're the most supremely stubborn bastard that I've ever encountered, Bri." He takes hold of Brian's face and leans into his ridiculous mate, the grasp of his hands now gentle. How much he cares for this ridiculous, infuriating, insecure giant of a man. How much he loves him. Brian wraps his arms around Roger's back for a moment in a hug of gratitude for the drummer's fiery sort of care.

Roger is seething as the others turn up at a pizza parlour, at last, and Brian reaches his lengthy arm out to automatically hold the door. His eyes crinkle at Roger, who wants to scream because here's the tosser helping everyone by holding the door for them, just like he holds songs together and helps them all with his stubbornness and ideas and his knowledge and ridiculous level of kindness and still _nobody fucking gets it!_

Not true, John smiles a mite and Freddie tosses off "thank you, Brimi darling" but that's almost worse, innit, when he's being noticed now and not in the studio, as they're all talking over each other and trying to order pizzas, a gigantic Margharita, another full of meat (which gets Freddie to widen his eyes suggestively and makes Roger flick out his tongue. Brian goes bright red). They get something ridiculous with anchovies and olives, and even more drinks. No more wine, as they've finally stopped smoking - Rog had stubbed out his cig at the door.

But Brian, his eyes crinkled up in thankful fondness for this, for everything Roger is, cups a hand to the drummer's hair as they shift and shuffle into a booth together. John brings napkins and knives and forks ("Who uses a bloody fork to eat pizza?" "You should, Roger") Freddie filling everyone's first glass with water as they wait for someone to bring over the alcohol, and Rog himself shoving into the corner with Brian next to him, in the middle so that Deacy can sit on the end and not feel too boxed-in during supper. 

When the food arrives they all tease Bowie about his order of pizza, saying they expected him to put pineapple on with the anchovies.

"I'm not THAT much of a fruit," David said, brows arched, and Roger snorts so hard into his drink that he nearly chokes, Brian having to thump him on the back smartly. Freddie is laughing, covering that beautiful smile with a hand, and John sniggers into his lap as shaking out his napkin all prim and proper, David acts as if he has no idea what they could find so hysterical. 

Yet his laughing eyes give the game away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian is so insecure, sweet fellow. John is quietly doing his best, Roger is fierce and fiery and watches out for his mates, and sweet Freddie is just trying to enjoy things.
> 
> *Yes there is a 'Dancing in the Streets' reference, I had to!
> 
> *Cocaine is a drug that causes impotence and paranoia during the course of being on/coming down from its effects, amongst other things...
> 
> *Roger's intense concern over possibly hurting Brian is an oblique reference to abuse he suffered in his own life, though he never elaborated on the sort
> 
> I have no idea what the fellows would actually like on their pizza, but anchovies plus olives equals waaaaay too much salt for me! The sweetness of pineapple could potentially balance it out, actually
> 
> David's not at all a bad guy, he gets into the banter ;)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	4. Screaming 'Let Me Out!'

They eat what seems as though it might be a kilo of pizza, John drinking enough alcohol to set Freddie and Brian pushing more food at him "Soak up the liquor with grease" is cracked, and Bri tries filling up his water. 

When even that is not enough, the guitarist tries to take John's newest cocktail in concern, and John shoves away. "Sod off, I c'n take care o' meself, Brian." He slips almost off the edge of the booth then, and Bri's long hand grabs hold of him.

Brian, before he can stop the words, sniffs "Clearly you can't, John," and the look of betrayal and ire in stormy green-grey irises as they lock on his hazel-brown gaze sends a shiver through Brian's chest, like an icicle stabbing through his heart, and he lifts his hand, bites his lip. Opens his mouth to apologise as he feels Roger dig a sharp elbow into his ribs as Freddie glances across the table reproachfully, but John has stood up, swaying, and mumbles something about using the washroom before he's off clattering into another table. Bri's chest clenches as Freddie is up and over to assist John before Bri himself has done more than lift himself out of his seat, hand tensed pressing flat upon the table. 

Roger tugs at Brian's shirt and hisses for him to sit back down. "You've done it, you numpty, let him steam" and Bri swallows, glancing at Bowie whose expression is unreadable as he sits in the opposite corner of their booth, arms folded. There's a slight twist to his mouth, a cocking of one eyebrow.

"...Bet you're relieved you haven't got to deal with temperamental bandmates, David, eh?"

Something flickers in Bowie's gaze, one eye - the one every person seems to think is bi-coloured or a different colour altogether, but is actually just nearly devoid of an iris at all, as his pupil is permanently enlarged - looking tearful for the briefest possible instant. His lips twitch. "You lot have something special going here," that ever-poised presence waves his hand about almost vaguely, smacking his lips just a bit, tips of his eyeteeth catching on the flesh of the lower one as he studies Roger and Brian. "I noticed it as we worked today."

The two bandmates and friends share a glance. Roger's eyes and Brian's mouth quirk in satirical fashion, their thoughts mirroring, or the same. 

Roger lifts expressive brows and leans in at that, letting both elbows fall onto the table with a sharp thunk that Brian winces in automatic sympathy at. "If what we've got is so special, don't ya think we ought to be utilising a bit more of it, mate?" 

David is calm, cool, collected. Only evidence that Roger's movement and words had at all affected him is the tapping of one finger against his own jacket sleeve. "I wonder, to what are you referring?" He asks.

Roger snorts. "'To what am I referring'? Right, I'll tell you straight-out," _Posh bastard_ the drummer very nearly speaks that phrase aloud, but feels Brian's hand close around his leg, just above his knee, with a squeeze that tells Roger to keep his mouth shut. He's always known what Roger goes on about, brilliant Bri. Bowie has his pretensions, surely from working alone, but Rog will have to set some things straight for him. 

"...We work well together as a group, because that's what we are. A group, who makes decisions together," jabbing a strong finger into the tabletop significantly, Roger adds "No one's voice outweighs the others'. We all write songs an' have ideas. We use each other's suggestions, we tell each other to piss off, but we're in this together. So we have all - all five of us - got to be together on this song, and if we're not, then fuck it." 

Roger's voice is so strident and sure, and Brian envies that surety, he feels a lump fill up his throat and hot stinging tears prick at the edges of his eyes. Even as he holds his breath in part due to trepidation, nigh horror over the possible reaction David will have.

Real fear pierces Brian's heart and he finds himself clutching Roger's nearer hand, which has slipped under the table just now, as a shuffling thump precedes Freddie's and John's reappearance. John looks a mite pale, but Fred provides their bassist with the support of quiet words as well as a strong shoulder; and John's gaze, though bleary, is focused enough for him to have heard and registered what Roger just said. 

All their eyes are now on Bowie.

The thought pounding throughout Brian's brain, warring with his feeling of immense remorse for irritating Deacy, is: _David has always worked alone before, what if his response is to say 'Well fuck it, then', and stalk right out?_

_What can we do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated <3


	5. Brains Round the Floor; Never Rains but it Pours

Freddie feels his heart hammering within his chest, like some pecking bird trying to break free and fly away. He thinks of John's lyrics then; dearest little Deacy, leaning into him, pale and sweaty and croaking over the toilet bowl some minutes ago: "D'you think I can't handle myself, Freddie?" In that perfect voice, all his own, so sweet and soft and heartbreakingly unsure of what he is, what they are to do.

Freddie shook his head and swore "You are the most solid of us, darling, the MOST able to handle yourself." He'd stepped close then and pushed his hand through John's curls gently. "How can I prove it to you? Shall we do something together? Will you tell me what you love, dear heart?" _What I can do, how can I help you?_

John had let out a garbled sound, his wiry strong arms wrapping around Freddie's waist as he buried his head into the singer's chest and whimpered something that manifested into syllables and then words, sweet lovely words. "You, Freddie. I love you, so much."

Freddie kissed John's forehead, stroked his hair. Unable to speak the word so baldly, he still can return the feeling with everything he has. "And I you, John, my darling." Always.

He loves his Roger too, dear lion, the fighter out front, snarling; he protects where John quietly preserves. Brian is standing, hand clenching around their drummer's, shoulders hunched like that fiery crustacean he is in crest, where Freddie flits about lightly, trying to bring light and beauty yet naught more substantial....

So he thinks as he stands there, end of the table between himself and this man he admires, this voice that weaves with his and shows him something else, something he has always longed for since that day he'd bent to shine some truly exquisite shoes and looked up into captivating, unearthly eyes. Eyes that showed him a path he longed to take, yet hid so much of ability, of manner, and even the power to walk out into the world and take his place amongst the dreamers. How could he, a buck-toothed boy from Zanzibar, even begin to discover a place for himself? Yet somehow, with these beautiful boys, he had; they had taken the world by storm.

Yet it seems now another is brewing, not of work and beauty and ability this time; no, of doubts and whispers clogging throats and dragging limbs. Of the dark spaces, opening up and swallowing him and his dear boys whole - or maybe simply Freddie, as they all have ways to be pulled out. Solo work, and other groups, and families. 

_They have families. What have you got, Freddie? You'd be alone if it wasn't for me._

That voice, he knows it and yet he doesn't; more like he cannot bear to know, and as Freddie inhales a gasp of air the world blurs around him, yet he feels a presence at his side, tightly pressing against him. John. A sharp voice, loud and high, rough and loyal. Roger. And then a hand, cool and thin and gentle, wrapping around his and hanging on, sending out both comfort and a fellow burst of sadness in how it trembles. Brian. Sweet Brimi has taken his hand.

And before them all stands David, who's wiped his mouth with a napkin and has listened, let Roger's words wash over him. He nods, then; says "Right, well. Then we're doing this together." He steps out of the booth, shuffle-sliding, and beckons, waves for them to head on in a manner most gallant. Freddie feels his heartbeat slowing down again to a healthy speed. He squeezes Brian's hand gratefully, looks to Roger and then Deacy. This is it. It's all right. They shall be all right. Won't they?

"Let's get on back to the studio and keep cracking, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie always could lift John up, it seems. He was the only one of the group John wrote songs with. They were so close
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	6. This is Ourselves

"I can't - I don't remember the riff, Roger!"

They'd gotten back to the studio, woken poor Mack with loud tapping on the window to the sound room, and started back in on the song. Had an entire second half, and still don't have the need for a guitar solo, yet everything grinds to an abrupt halt when John is asked to play his bass riff again.

"Hey, mate, it's alright. You're doing alright, Deacy. Just breathe, yeah?" 

The bassist's eyes are wide, his hands fisted in his hair as he sits, defeated. Roger had gone from twirling a drumstick behind his kit to vaulting over the front and taking hold of his bass boy's upper arms before wrapping them around John and rubbing the back of his head. John's fear of failure is surfacing in ragged gasps and choking sobs, magnified even more by the fact he is utterly pissed.

"...How much wine did he have?" Brian murmurs, and Roger looks over at him with a sharp jerk of his head as Freddie waves a hand, his own deep gaze not leaving John.

"I really don't think that matters at present, dear. What we should ask, is if there's a way to help our Deacy remember what he played."

"It was quite good," Brian says, David nodding in agreement. "... should have written it down," the guitarist adds, thinking maybe one of them ought to, berating himself inwardly for not having his notebook and a pencil on hand earlier that night. He'd been so caught up in not getting to play a guitar solo. _For one single song. There will be so many others on this album, Brian. Get over yourself._

Yet that inner monologue John doesn't know.

"Oh of COURSE I should've written it down, and I would have if I was brilliant Brian May! Um, well, I'm not, so thanks Brian, that's bloody -" John cuts himself off with almost a wail of frustration, clutching Roger's open shirt, burying his face in the drummer's chest. Brian blanches.

"Maybe we could...if we put the bass in his hand and got the drums and words going, or playback...,"

"Or one of us could try it -" begins Bowie. 

"You want me to roll tape?" Reinhold Mack's accented voice makes them jump, and Roger swear, as no one had thought of the mics being live just now. John's features have gotten mottled and rise out of Roger's shirt, mortified. 

Though he is not so overcome as to be unable to stare at David and say " _I'm_ the bassist, right?" Stolidly. 

"Hang on, Mack," Brian says as Roger grins down at John in approval for his words to Bowie, who takes a second but nods. The drummer narrows his eyes and suddenly goes rigid. "Roger? Are you alright?"

John fully raises his head, wiping away tears from eyes red-rimmed from crying and with drink. He needs to take some breaths, like Roger said; and he should probably get to sleep sometime soon as well, but Roger's sudden stillness is arresting him now. "... Um. What's going on, Rog?"

The drummer's eyes are dancing. "Bum bum bum ba da DUM dum," he suddenly says, and as John blinks and Freddie falters, Roger lifts the bassist's hand and smacks his into it with a rhythm. Bum bum bum da da DUM dum. "Pressure!" He crows Bowie's first word in falsetto and stares at John. "This is your riff, mate, I've got it! Here -" he picks up John's bass and slings the strap around his shoulders. "C'mon, do that, play." 

John bows his head, licking his fingers frantic to wet the strings, to try this riff, to be sure it's right and he isn't letting them down. "Yes," John breathes, fingers finding the notes that Roger keeps vocalising, nodding and holding onto his shoulder, mouth working. "Oh, Rog, you're a genius."

"You're the one who came up with that brilliant riff in the first place, Johnny," Roger's cheeks are slightly pink and his tone of voice is a gentle growl as he pats John's arm before relinquishing him to pick up his drumsticks and twirl them, settling back behind the set. "...I just remembered it."

"And thank God you did," Brian is moving to his spot, working his fingers across Red, eyes catching John's, who blinks and presses his wide lips together. The guitarist nods back.

Freddie and David look at each other with eyes glowing. Freddie is beaming, moustache twitching as they stand together at the microphone with their lyrics, counting time before belting out:

_"Pressure! Pushing down on me, pressing down on you, no man asks for. Under pressure! That burns a building down, splits a family in two, puts people on streets...."_

**Author's Note:**

> Some things I noticed upon listening to 'Under Pressure' (again, none of this is meant as disrespect, you are fully entitled to disagree with me):  
> The sound of the instruments were so firmly in the background, not heightening or highlighting vocals in the manner of other Queen songs.  
> There aren't any instantly recognisable background vocals from Roger or Brian  
> It's as if the song is heading for a place but never quite reaches it - the beat and music work, I mean. Vocals are forced to hold up the piece, as if someone forgot there were three people present and fully capable of providing more than just a basic backing track. Because, despite John's extra funky and recognisable bass riff, the rest of this is a pretty basic backing track by typical Queen standards, at least in my opinion.
> 
> I'd be interested to hear what you think :)  
> I think all these men have strong personalities and visions, and though this piece might not have been everything that all of them wanted, it's a helluva song to hear and to write about for a story.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
